It
was long, long work; but the uppermost thought in my heart was
always the thought of justifying myself to you, and that made me
patient and persevering. I learned, at last, to write so as not
to be ashamed of myself, or to make you ashamed of me. I began a
letter--my first letter to you--but I heard of your marriage
before it was done, and then I had to tear the paper up, and put
the pen down again.
"I had no right to come between you and your wife, even with so
little a thing as a letter; I had no right to do anything but
hope and pray for your happiness. Are you happy? I am sure you
ought to be; for how can your wife help loving you?
"It is very hard for me to explain why I have ventured on writing
now, and yet I can't think that I am doing wrong. I heard a few
days ago (for I have a friend at Pisa who keeps me informed, by
my own desire, of all the pleasant changes in your life)--I heard
of your child being born; and I thought myself, after that,
justified at last in writing to you. No letter from me, at such a
time as this, can rob your child's mother of so much as a thought
of yours that is due to her. Thus, at least, it seems to me. I
wish so well to your child, that I cannot surely be doing wrong
in writing these lines.
"I have said already what I wanted to say--what I have been
longing to say for a whole year past. I have told you why I left
Pisa; and have, perhaps, persuaded you that I have gone through
some suffering, and borne some heart-aches for your sake.
Pages:
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448